I hate it that I'm a flower.
A flower —
Which blossoms, with your gaze
as you hold me close.
Or withers away in haste
when you pay no heed.
I hate it that I'm a flower
which blooms or dooms
at your pace.
I wish I could be more like you —
A bee,
which simply steals
and stealthily keeps moving
from one to another in glee,
with no memory
of flowers like me.
No comments:
Post a Comment